person has the key. You see,’ she went on with mad logic, ‘if anything goes missing, we’ve only the one person to blame.’
Alison’s lips trembled. ‘I want my keys.’
‘I’ll see if the sergeant can do anything.’ The girl stubbed out her cigarette and disappeared. After a few moments, the sergeant came back with her. Again Alison told her story and again heard the tale of the one person with the key.
‘But I live in Lochdubh. I must get home.’ Alison was becoming terrified. What if Maggie should phone or, even worse, turn up in person?
‘Now, now, we’ll do our best.’ He called into the back of the police station and another policeman, seemingly of more senior rank, appeared.
‘Och, I think we can help you,’ he said, and then as Alison watched, he took off his tunic and rolled up his sleeves. The sergeant produced a wire coat hanger which he proceeded to unravel, and then both policemen began to fish down the letter box, rather like schoolboys fishing down a drain and with as many chuckles, and ‘a wee bit mair tae yer right, Frank,’ and other jolly words of encouragement.
After half an hour – the Highland police force has endless patience – the door to the police station opened and a young man rushed in. He had hair en brosse , a gold earring, and a desperate expression on his face. He tried to get attention but failed because the policemen were too busy fishing.
Control yourself, said Alison’s inner voice. It’s not the end of the world. It’s only car keys. This poor man looks as if he’s here to report a murder. Aloud, she said to the young man. ‘Ring the bell on the wall.’
He did and the sergeant turned reluctantly from the letter box. ‘What do you want?’
‘Can I use your toilet?’ asked the young man.
‘Sure. Through there.’
‘This is madness!’ howled Alison. ‘Look, give me the address of whoever has the key and I will take a taxi there and pick it up.’
‘It’s twenty miles out on the Black Isle.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Alison, tears of frustration standing out in her eyes.
‘Och, you English are always that impatient,’ said the sergeant with a grin. ‘But we’ve got things in hand. We’ve sent out for a magnet.’
The girl of the reception and the cigarettes had returned. ‘A magnet!’ said Alison. The girl avoided her eyes and pretended to read some papers.
Another half-hour passed by while night fell outside and Alison tried not to scream at the forces of law and order and then suddenly a cheer went up. ‘Got’em!’
‘There you are,’ said the sergeant. ‘There was nothing for you to get upset about, now was there?’
But ungrateful Alison simply snatched the keys out of his hand and ran out without a word of thanks.
Her face tense under the glare of the sodium street lights, she walked back through the deserted streets to the car park. Dingwall, like most Highland towns, had closed down for the night. No one will believe this, she thought, it’s cloud cuckoo land.
She got into the car, switched on the lights, and began the long drive home. Night driving was misery to Alison. Approaching headlamps seemed to draw her like a moth and she kept having to twitch the wheel nervously to make sure she kept to the correct side of the road. By the time she finally parked in Lochdubh and got out of the car, her legs were trembling and she was afraid she would fall.
She rang the police station bell but Hamish had seen her coming and was lying down behind his living room sofa, waiting for her to go away.
Sadly, Alison went home. It had been a nightmare. Driving was a nightmare. She would never get back behind the wheel again.
But no sooner had she managed to park the car neatly in the garage than she found herself already restless for a new day, a day that would contain her two favourite obsessions – driving and Hamish Macbeth.
Priscilla climbed aboard the Highland Chieftain, the train which was to take her from
Alison’s lips trembled. ‘I want my keys.’
‘I’ll see if the sergeant can do anything.’ The girl stubbed out her cigarette and disappeared. After a few moments, the sergeant came back with her. Again Alison told her story and again heard the tale of the one person with the key.
‘But I live in Lochdubh. I must get home.’ Alison was becoming terrified. What if Maggie should phone or, even worse, turn up in person?
‘Now, now, we’ll do our best.’ He called into the back of the police station and another policeman, seemingly of more senior rank, appeared.
‘Och, I think we can help you,’ he said, and then as Alison watched, he took off his tunic and rolled up his sleeves. The sergeant produced a wire coat hanger which he proceeded to unravel, and then both policemen began to fish down the letter box, rather like schoolboys fishing down a drain and with as many chuckles, and ‘a wee bit mair tae yer right, Frank,’ and other jolly words of encouragement.
After half an hour – the Highland police force has endless patience – the door to the police station opened and a young man rushed in. He had hair en brosse , a gold earring, and a desperate expression on his face. He tried to get attention but failed because the policemen were too busy fishing.
Control yourself, said Alison’s inner voice. It’s not the end of the world. It’s only car keys. This poor man looks as if he’s here to report a murder. Aloud, she said to the young man. ‘Ring the bell on the wall.’
He did and the sergeant turned reluctantly from the letter box. ‘What do you want?’
‘Can I use your toilet?’ asked the young man.
‘Sure. Through there.’
‘This is madness!’ howled Alison. ‘Look, give me the address of whoever has the key and I will take a taxi there and pick it up.’
‘It’s twenty miles out on the Black Isle.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Alison, tears of frustration standing out in her eyes.
‘Och, you English are always that impatient,’ said the sergeant with a grin. ‘But we’ve got things in hand. We’ve sent out for a magnet.’
The girl of the reception and the cigarettes had returned. ‘A magnet!’ said Alison. The girl avoided her eyes and pretended to read some papers.
Another half-hour passed by while night fell outside and Alison tried not to scream at the forces of law and order and then suddenly a cheer went up. ‘Got’em!’
‘There you are,’ said the sergeant. ‘There was nothing for you to get upset about, now was there?’
But ungrateful Alison simply snatched the keys out of his hand and ran out without a word of thanks.
Her face tense under the glare of the sodium street lights, she walked back through the deserted streets to the car park. Dingwall, like most Highland towns, had closed down for the night. No one will believe this, she thought, it’s cloud cuckoo land.
She got into the car, switched on the lights, and began the long drive home. Night driving was misery to Alison. Approaching headlamps seemed to draw her like a moth and she kept having to twitch the wheel nervously to make sure she kept to the correct side of the road. By the time she finally parked in Lochdubh and got out of the car, her legs were trembling and she was afraid she would fall.
She rang the police station bell but Hamish had seen her coming and was lying down behind his living room sofa, waiting for her to go away.
Sadly, Alison went home. It had been a nightmare. Driving was a nightmare. She would never get back behind the wheel again.
But no sooner had she managed to park the car neatly in the garage than she found herself already restless for a new day, a day that would contain her two favourite obsessions – driving and Hamish Macbeth.
Priscilla climbed aboard the Highland Chieftain, the train which was to take her from
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